About a boy

My son Max loves to wear dresses. When he was two he seemed to enjoy the novelty and the comfort of frocks, as well as the chuckles they elicited from adults. Now, at age four, his desire to wear gowns is a conscious choice bordering on obsession. As soon as the boy gets home, off go the pants and on goes his favorite frilly ensemble. Then he proudly pronounces to all within earshot that he is a princess.

The desire to dress as the opposite sex is not uncommon among young children, according to all of Max’s teachers. Still, neighborly adults try to correct my son when he expresses his preference, sure that it’s in his best interests that he embrace his own gender. On the playground, peers can be ruthless, insisting it’s “silly” (as if dressing like a superhero isn’t silly at all). I often want to clobber anyone who shames my son, even if it’s just a six-year-old boy.

My wife and I have had lengthy discussions about creating healthy limits for Max’s dress wearing. We initially wanted to forbid it outright, purely for fear of his being ostracized. Next we’d considered giving Max total freedom to dress as he likes. “What if he’s gay?” my wife posited, “and restrictions lead to psychological damage?” “Even if he is gay,” I retorted, “he won’t be wearing a dress in high school.” But Max is so strong willed, perhaps he will.

For now, we’ve decided to allow it at home and during dress-up time at school. But when Max goes out in public he knows that he’s supposed to wear “appropriate” clothes. “But why?” he asks over and over again. I have yet to come up with a sufficient answer (for either of us). At best, I offer him the harried parent’s secret weapon, the tautological response: “Because dresses are not for outside.”

Max has a strong curiosity about gender. As a two-year-old he was astute in pointing out who among the vacationers in our hotel’s swimming pool was in possession of a vagina. He would let them know. At our local playground, Max is deliberate in telling nearly everyone he can find, “I am a princess, with a white dress and glass slippers.” I can tell his thinking is nuanced, for he finds the most alpha-male characters wherever he goes to engage on this topic: the tough guy on the basketball court, the largest man at any gathering. He will argue with them tirelessly as they assert his boy-ness.

How do I feel about all this? Max’s outlandish drag is no more novel to me by now than tap water. Then again, I often wonder if I’ve failed to set a good example for him—if I am not a strong enough male. I wonder why he is so enamored of his mother and chooses to emulate her and not me. (Incidentally, my own mother couldn’t be happier to see me suffering with a precocious, obstinate child. What goes around comes around.)

Max’s zeal took a startling turn when he asked my wife if she could cut off his penis and give him a “_’gina.” We worried that Max might be transgender. But after talking to a psychiatrist and scouring many a blog, I feel confident that it is impossible to diagnose such a young child.

I just went to purchase Max a fishing pole for his birthday—something he’d asked for. Surveying the selection at Target, I noticed a pole marketed to girls: a pink rod with princess images all over the packaging. I wanted so badly to buy him something red or army green. But I gave in. Max will get his princess rod. I cannot unmake his personality anymore than I made it.

It is a universal challenge for parents to manage the separateness of their children: their desire to do things the way they want, to not conform to their parents’ wishes. What Max has taught me is to bend like a willow. I will celebrate my child’s uniqueness, not battle it.